The Locket

by Brenna Todd

"Della..."

  She turned back to J.B., ready to confess in Della's place—until she met that look in his eyes again. Oh, Lord, no matter what she did, someone was going to pay, and pay dearly. Again she wished Della hadn't already met her Maker. She should be the one paying, not these two. And she should also be the one facing the music, Erin thought, noting J.B.'s tic was acting up again.

  It reminded her of J.B.'s threat, and her stomach twisted in knots. One more stunt and she was going to find herself put away in an asylum. Her head pounded harder, and Erin chewed her lower lip. Oh, how she wanted to smash through the locked door and run—anywhere, just as long as it was miles away from here. What she would give to be back home, faced with decisions she could handle.

  "Your answer, Della," J.B. commanded.

  "Please, I... don't know what to say to you, either of you...."

  J.B. made a disgusted sound and rubbed at the tic in his cheek. "The truth. That shouldn't be so difficult."

  "But I don't know the truth!" she blurted out.

  The woman's forehead creased in surprise. J.B. glowered. "Della..."

  "Pay her the money, J.B. She needs it and you know it. I'll admit to it if you—"

  "No!" the woman said. She strode to J.R's desk. "Please put the draft away, Mr. Munro. I wouldn't think—"

  Erin moved, too, seeming to take the woman by surprise again when she grabbed her arm. "Take it. You have to. What about your kids? listen, pride won't pay your bills, feed your family! You need-"

  "I don't need your charity, Mrs. Munro!" She shrugged off Erin's hand and backed away, her eyes welling with tears again. "I won't take anything from you!"

  "Come on, forget about what he did and just—"

  "No, I wantonly—"

  "And take the money—"

  "—to know if my Roy—"

  "For your kids if nothing else—"

  "Here, now! Stop it! Both of you!" J.B. shouted, pounding his fist on the burled-walnut desk. It caught their attention, and the women's heads turned. He sighed loudly and raked a hand through his hair. "This seems to be getting us nowhere."

  "J.B., I said yes, okay? I did it, so just write—"

  "No!" the woman insisted.

  "Be quiet," J.B. ordered. "Mrs. Tompkins, I need to speak alone with my wife." He came out from behind the desk, passed them and unlocked the office door. "If you wouldn't mind, could you please step outside for a moment?"

  She did as requested, shooting Erin a baffled look on her way out. J.B. closed the door and approached Erin, indicating that she should sit in the chair behind her. He took the one facing her.

  "You weren't with this man, were you?" he asked quietly, taking her hand in his.

  Erin remembered holding J.B.'s hand when he'd been dying. She remembered how he'd called out Della's name and asked for her forgiveness, and she thought of how he would soon learn that his wife was dead. No matter what she'd been in this life, she'd been his wife—maybe even someone he'd loved. That meant something. Erin wasn't quite sure what, but she knew there was a connection between the two that brought a look of sadness and pain to his eyes. Della might have been guilty of this thing, but Erin had the power to alleviate some of J.B.'s pain. It would mean meddling, taking matters into her own hands. She found she simply couldn't not do it.

  "No," she whispered, and felt somewhere deep in her heart that it was the truth. "No, I wasn't."

  He nodded, as though he believed her.

  "But he was with someone, J.B. And he left that woman and her children. You'll help her, won't you?"

  "Yes," he answered with a promptness that made Erin wonder if he'd planned to do that all along. He squeezed her hand lightly, surprising Erin. She tried to interpret the gesture. Was it husbandly? Fatherly? Whatever it was, it was gentle and tender, and Erin wondered suddenly if J.B. and Della's relationship could be healthier than she'd thought. He'd made a comment this morning, something about not being a true husband, and Erin had just assumed that meant they weren't intimate with each other. But separate bedrooms didn't necessarily mean they didn't sleep together, and she was filled with apprehension.

  "I want this sudden concern for someone other than yourself to be genuine, Della. But you must understand that it takes me by surprise."

  "Yes, I do." She cleared her throat, not knowing if she would regret what she'd just done. The woman and her children deserved help, but, odd as it sounded, Erin didn't necessarily want to heal the rift in Della and J.B.'s relationship. It could mean a whole new set of problems for her.

  "I wouldn't count on a personality turnaround, if I were you," Erin said, aiming for sarcasm, but not sure she had struck the right note. "Just call it an aberration," she added.

  J.B. sighed and let go of her hand, then rose, turning away from her. He walked toward the door and unlocked it. As he opened it, he said, "You're right... an aberration. And I promised I'd never speak about what happened again. I'll keep that vow to you. It's the least I can do for the kindness you've shown tonight."

  CHAPTER NINE

  ERIN AWOKE TO THE SOUND of a radio playing softly. This time she recognized immediately where she was, and what the date was. It would have been impossible to mistake the man crooning "A Rainbow on My Shoulder" for Neil Diamond or Michael Bolton. She sighed, sat up in bed and pushed her hair out of her face.

  Day two, she thought, and shook her head.

  After the scene in J.B.'s office last night, Erin and he had reached a truce of sorts. He hadn't let down his guard so much that she could escape to her room, but at least the remainder of the dinner party wasn't as fraught with tension as the beginning. He kept a watchful eye on Erin, but frowned at her less. Toward the end of the night she even caught him smiling and joking with his guests. The rest of the party followed his lead, and all the stares and raised brows directed at her when she and J.B. returned from his office eventually disappeared. Erin supposed the guests didn't have to know the details to figure out what had happened in that office.

  She squinted at the clock across the room, then jumped out of bed. Eleven o'clock! The party had continued into the wee hours, so she supposed she could be forgiven, but Erin had never slept so late in her life! She hurried into Della's opulent bathroom, remembering how the tour guide had gone on and on about the luxuries in this household compared to those of common folk in this era. For all that the urban areas of the country enjoyed modern conveniences like indoor plumbing and radios and cars, this was Oklahoma. People who weren't of J. B. Munro's class—the farmers and oil field and railroad workers—wouldn't know a Pierce-Arrow automobile if it ran over them, and they certainly didn't own anything as expensive or frivolous as a radio.

  As she showered Erin worried about the abandoned wife again. J.B. had assured her that he would find a way to take care of the woman's financial needs, but he'd refused to let Erin "lie" by admitting she was involved with her husband. But what if Erin's truth wasn't Della's? What if it really had happened and the woman found proof, then brought it to J.B.? Was there a padded room in Erin's future? More misery for J.B. and for Roy's wife?

  Well, she would just have to deal with it when the time came. Besides, if her plan to get the locket worked out soon, there would be no need to worry at all.

  Erin was going to try to find her way into the tunnels again tonight after everyone was asleep. Her strategy involved sneaking out of the mansion and searching all the buildings the guide had mentioned as having access to the tunnels. And this time she knew where those structures were. She'd noticed them when Waite had brought her back to the main house yesterday.

  Waite. She'd learned last night that he was coming along with her, J.B. and Wyndham to the 101 Ranch today.

  She'd done her damnedest to keep her eyes off him after returning to the dinner party last night, but her strength of will had failed her. She'd just had to know; just had to see if there would be disapproval in his eyes, reproach for what he guessed Della had done. It was another woman's shame, but that hadn't kept E
rin from taking responsibility for it, any more than she could slough off accountability with Waite.

  Meeting his gaze, she'd lifted her chin and sent a mental challenge, but there had been no censure in his expression. None for her, at least. He'd stared back at her with a clenched jaw, and the only emotion she could see in the depths of his beautiful dark eyes had been self-recrimination.

  Owning up to Della's guilt had been difficult enough for Erin but having kissed Waite, the guilt now belonged to her. And that was worse. The shame tasted like ashes in her mouth, and Erin spent the rest of the night avoiding his eyes. She hadn't been able to escape thoughts of him, though. Thoughts too carnal in nature for her peace of mind.

  Eventually, the party guests had trailed out of the dining room and into a large parlor. Erin had joined the cluster of women, and struggled to focus her attention on their chatter. It wasn't as though their conversation was boring. On the contrary, it had been rather intriguing to listen to the women discussing a strange new form of surgery called "face-lifting," shopping trips to New York and naughty stage plays they'd attended and had been delightfully shocked by.

  Then, when the women's dialogue had taken a decidedly sexual turn toward Dr. Freud and his theory that sex was the central and pervasive force that moved mankind, Erin became a helpless hostage to libidinous thoughts about a man she'd vowed to put out of her mind. One of the women spoke of seeing an analyst in Europe who had suggested that if she were to be well and happy, she must obey her libido. Another adamantly agreed, saying an uninhibited sex life was the first requirement for mental health, according to her New York analyst.

  While shooting Erin looks insinuating that she must know all about uninhibited sex, they had batted back and forth their various sexual theories until Erin had wanted to run screaming from the parlor—but only after grabbing Waite by the arm and taking him along with her. She couldn't stop thinking about their one kiss, couldn't get over how willing she'd been to forget who she was, where she was from and the fact that she had to get back. Most of all, she couldn't put an end to her traitorous urges. Though Erin hadn't ventured a single glance in Waite's direction for the remainder of the party, she'd felt his gaze on her. And God help her, even knowing the danger in it, she'd wanted to feel more than that.

  This morning she had awakened with the thought that if Freud was right, she was going to be a mental wreck in no time. She'd had dreams of Waite last night, dreams during which she had acted on her urges. She had thrown control to the wind and had made love with him, not thinking for a moment about J.B. or Della or returning home to her father. She had reveled in the freedom to touch and caress him, to feel him love her. She shook her head. It was just a dream, she reminded herself, toweling off from her shower, then dressing in another of Della's outfits for the trip to the 101. A dream that hadn't a prayer of ever coming true.

  SHE WAS DOING IT AGAIN, damn it! Acting as though she'd never seen the inside of J.B.'s Packard when she'd been the one to help pick it out. Waite watched Della through narrowed eyes from his corner of the back seat. She glanced down at the floorboard, then, with the toe of one shoe, lifted the small rug that covered it and peered at it, inspecting it like someone about to purchase the automobile.

  She'd been staring at the car from the moment J.B. had seated her across from Waite and closed the door, then joined Wyndham in the front. Brushing her fingers over the leather upholstery, she'd surreptitiously peeked over the seat when J.B. hit the starter button. Her eyes had widened almost imperceptibly, and a small childlike smile of delight had played about her lips. But when she ventured a look at him out of the corner of her eye, the delight had vanished. He'd met her glance with a lifted brow, and she'd folded her hands in her lap and sat staring straight ahead, still as a statue for the rest of the trip.

  It shouldn't have irritated him, but it did. He couldn't explain why, exactly, but Della paying attention to the rules, Della doing as bidden, made him uneasy. It just wasn't... Well, hell, it wasn't Della. He likened it to her behavior when she and J.B. had reappeared at the dinner party last night. Waite had expected to see the usual expression of rebellion and outright defiance on her face, or maybe a mocking, self-satisfied smile. Though she'd almost dared him to cut her down with a censorious look, he'd seen remorse in her expression, and it had reminded him of his own.

  Waite glanced out at the barren plain as they neared the 101, suddenly realizing why he was irritated. He wanted everything to remain as it had always been before she'd come up out of the tunnels the other night. He didn't want Della to gain a heart and a conscience, just as he hadn't wanted to experience the tumult he'd felt when he'd held her in his arms. The old Della was easy to dismiss from his thoughts—but not the woman she seemed to have become.

  Now she was what, as a young man, blinded by love and lust, he had perceived her to be. He'd been wrong, of course, but that had been what he'd wanted to see.

  He didn't like it. Seeing glimmers of the woman he'd desired her to be made him angry, in fact. He'd lost that woman.. .actually had truly never had her. It rankled to know that a bump on the head might be responsible for changing Della into his old ideal. It rankled to feel the attraction again. It had been dead for so many years, destroyed when she'd so callously spurned the love he'd offered. It was insane that he found himself drawn to Della again, but he could hardly deny it. Since he'd kissed her yesterday, he'd found it impossible to tear her out of his thoughts.

  They turned into the 101 just in time to interrupt those dangerous thoughts. Even thinking about Della as anything other than his friend's wife was alarming.

  J.B. cut the Packard's engine and glanced over his shoulder at Waite with a grin. He nodded toward the beautiful, three-story white ranch house, "Bring back memories?"

  "A bunch," Waite replied, his lips curving upward as he caught sight of his former boss, George Miller. What a picture the rancher made, dressed in cowboy regalia and leaning indolently against one of the Grecian columns.

  J.B. turned to the man seated in the front with him, clapping him jovially on the arm. "You won't be sorry you decided to come along for this, Harrison. Those cronies of yours in Boston will be jealous as hell that you got to see a real Wild West show."

  "These shows travel, you know. Saw one like it only last spring," the banker commented with a bored look.

  Waite held in a chuckle. The man didn't fool him for a second. J.B. neither, judging from the discreet wink he sent Waite.

  "Ah, been to one, have you? Well, we'll just have to see how it compares to the real thing, won't we?"

  Wyndham harrumphed and opened his door. J.B. chuckled and got out of the Packard, then helped Della out. Waite followed suit, noting that she was once again taking in her surroundings as though they were new to her. What was going on? Could her amnesia story be genuine? She was more wide-eyed than old Wyndham, ogling some of the performers standing nearby. Her gaze settled on the Indians and their colorful headdresses, and she seemed not to recognize the cowgirls she'd met on past visits. Her head swiveled this way and that, as if she were trying to get her bearings, as she walked alongside J.B. up to the porch of the "White House," as Miller's home had been dubbed.

  "Munro, you old dog, you! What'd it take to get your sorry hide out of that mansion for a visit with us saddle tramps—news that Will and Tom are here?" Miller said with an exaggerated drawl as he shook J.B.'s hand.

  Wyndham, who stood next to Waite, cocked a brow at Waite and asked quietly, "Will and Tom?"

  "Rogers and Mix," he answered, then hid a wry grin when the banker's mouth gaped. "Mr. Miller," Waite said, stepping forward with his hand outstretched. "Good to see you again, sir."

  "Mister Miller," George hooted, shaking his hand. "Sir. This from the man who could buy and sell me any day of the week and twice on Sunday. Can I talk you into doing a little bronc-busting for us today, MacKinnon?" he asked with a wide grin. He pointed at Waite and in a stage whisper to Wyndham, said, "This one used to work for me, you k
now."

  Wyndham seemed impressed, which was just as J.8. and Miller had planned it. Miller was a showman through and through, and had jumped at the opportunity to help J.B. and Waite out in this business matter. For all that he liked to act as if he were a simple rancher, the house behind him told a different story. George had built an empire out of bringing the romance of the West to the rest of the world. And he was just as concerned about the economy in Oklahoma as J.B. was.

  Miller took Della's hand and lifted it to his lips. "Mrs. Munro. Dad blame it if I'm not gonna have to put blinders on my cowboys again! You look as lovely as ever."

  Her smile was shy and pretty, and Waite became uneasy again. There wasn't a shy bone in that woman's body, damn it. No matter how much J.B. might have demanded that she do some acting today, too, Della wouldn't have agreed to it. In fact, the very suggestion would have pushed her to do the opposite.

  She caught him staring, scowling at her, and the smile abruptly vanished. It was only after she'd turned away that he realized his hands were balled into fists at his sides. Ridiculous. Crazy that he should care whether she smiled or not, whether the smile was comely or conniving, bashful or bold as brass. Della Munro was none of his concern. And it was dangerous to think otherwise.

  Miller introduced a visibly intrigued Wyndham to some of the performers, then they were all off to the arena where the show would soon begin. Most of Munro City had shown up to watch the spectacle, as well, and once everyone was seated in the stands and the performance got off to a roaring start with a parade of cowboys and cowgirls, Indians, a troop of Cossacks and even a trio of burlesquing harlequins, Waite tried to relax and enjoy it.

  But he couldn't shake the uncomfortable feeling that nagged at the edges of his mind. The cowboy shoot-outs and Indian war dances, the trick riders and bareback shooters weren't enough to distract him from thoughts of the woman he'd ridden next to today. And it wasn't just her actions that disturbed him. There was something else.